The mouths of the dead stick agape;
No words, no meaning; the quiet of rain.
Black vacuum in stasis without escape;
The mouths of the dead stick agape.
Scar of dried blood stitched into the nape;
Abstract discussion turns out to be vain.
The mouths of the dead, stiff, agape;
No words bring no meaning; quiet, and rain.
They take her form away from her because being
is not enough. And so, onto the plinth she goes.
Each of their hands dips cloth in paste
and fastens quickly on her the pose
of service: To cover her indecency, each
applies a rune, a word, a kana –
onna, kneeling, blood, okane, yellow, hapa
haole, beauty, bok guey, rompio, property –
until she learns the language by disintegration. Each
vellum decides: a little shorter, thinner, hips too
narrow, legs too plump; layer upon
layers of decisive miss-construction, fixed
Once every digit satisfies, every eye admires
its own reflection, time stops: behold
identity. So perfect that none even notice
now, beneath the hardened pearl of labels,
a pile of human dust.
Scar of Repair
the scar of repair shows shape of the work
the work of repair gives shape to the scar
the scar of the shape marks the work of repair
repair of the scar hides work of the shape
the work of the scar hides repair of the shape
the shape of repair adds a scar to the work
the work of the shape means repair of the scar
the shape of the scar is the work of repair.